The Mammoth Book of Tasteless Jokes (44 page)

“He was ninety-eight,” she sobbed. “Two years older than I am.”

“Really?” the undertaker said. “Hardly worth going home, is it?”

My grandfather swore by adding a spoonful of gunpowder to his tea every morning. He said it was a very old remedy to help him live longer, and it worked: he lived to the ripe old age of ninety-seven. He left a widow, two children, fourteen grandchildren and a fifty-foot crater where the crematorium used to be.

My dad recently died of asbestos poisoning. It took three weeks to cremate him.

Three gay men died and were going to be cremated. Their lovers were waiting in line at the crematorium at the same time and were discussing what they planned to do with the ashes.

The first said, “My partner loved to fly, so I’m going up in a plane to scatter his ashes in the sky.”

The second said, “My partner was a good fisherman, so I’m going to scatter his ashes in his favourite lake.”

The third man said, “My partner was sex mad. I’m going to dump his ashes in a chicken vindaloo so he can tear my arse up just one more time.”

My grandmother used to have terrible arthritis, which left her completely crippled. She used to drink a litre of olive oil a day. It didn’t help combat the arthritis but it made her cremation a lot quicker.

A man goes to the doctor and says: “I’ve got a cricket ball stuck up my arse.”

The doctor says, “How’s that?”

The man replies, “Don’t you fucking start!”

The English cricket team went to Australia to try to win the Ashes. As they were going through customs their captain was stopped by immigration control and asked if he had a criminal record. “Nah,” he replied. “To be honest, I didn’t think you needed one any more.”

A woman walks into a police station and goes up to the reception desk.

“I’ve just been raped,” she tells the desk sergeant.

He takes down her personal details and then asks her, “Did you get a look at your assailant, miss?”

“Yes. He was a New Zealand cricketer,” she replies.

“How do you know he was a cricketer?”

“Well, he was dressed all in white. White shirt, white jumper, white trousers and shoes,” replied the woman.

“I see. Could he possibly have been a crown green bowler, miss? They also wear white clothing,” points out the sergeant.

“No, he was definitely a cricketer. He still had his pads on.”

“Fair enough, so he’s a cricketer. But how do you know he’s a New Zealand cricketer?” asks the sergeant.

The woman replies, “Well, he wasn’t in for long.”

Tomorrow, I’m going to dress up as Hitler but without any trousers or underwear. I’m going to carry a pig under one arm and a can of spray-paint under the other. Then I’m going to rob my local bank, spray offensive messages on all the walls, fuck the pig seven ways, then leave a big turd out on every desk, before walking out with the money. Let’s see
Crimewatch
re-create that.

According to government statistics, hippopotamuses kill more people every year than knives. A knife, however, is much easier to conceal.